


Todd and Téa - Plausible Deniability

by Tessaray



Category: One Life to Live
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2019-07-21 00:29:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16148762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tessaray/pseuds/Tessaray
Summary: Nothing can happen, nothing will happen - that's the policy. But maybe denial is the perfect loophole. Classic TnT, circa 1997. Basically a Plot What Plot. Note: I originally posted this as a one-shot, but it was fun to write and had so much potential for more that I decided to keep going. Enjoy!





	1. Chapter 1

Téa moves around Todd's office, briskly gathering up her belongings after an unusually tense, nearly silent lunch of Chinese take-out. He'd been even more unreadable than usual, darting glances at her from under his brow, scowling and looking away when she caught him. It made her paranoid, like maybe she had food hanging from her face and he was secretly laughing at her… and finally she'd had enough.

"It might be nice if you came home tonight," she says curtly, shouldering her purse and wrapping her coat over her arm. "I'm sure your daughter would like to see you."

He's sitting behind his desk, pencil tapping, leg jogging, and as she hoists her briefcase and turns for the door, she's acutely aware that his eyes have been following her every move…

She lets out a frustrated cry, wheels on him. "What?! What is  _wrong_  with you today?"

"You wear that color before?" he says.

She blinks, looks down at her periwinkle skirt-suit. "You've seen me in this a dozen times!"

"Right." He sniffs, scrubs a hand over his goatee, tosses the pencil, gets up. "How you feeling, Delgado? You look a little on edge."

"Me? No. No more than  _usual,_ " she says, eyeing him pointedly.

He jams his hands in his pockets, comes around the desk, leans back against it and crosses his legs at the ankles.

"So, uh… you just get your hair… done…?" he says.

"Uh… nooooo."

"Lipstick? New lipstick?"

She squints, gives him a quick head-to-toe scan and sighs. "Oh God... you're trying to be nice. Okay, Todd, what do you want."

"Nothing!" he barks and shoves off from the desk. "Can't a man give his wife a compliment without her getting all suspicious at him?!"

"What compliment, exactly?"

He hunches a bit, throws out a hand and awkwardly gestures in her direction.

"Your… I don't know. Whatever."

"Gee, thanks."

He sighs, rolls his eyes. "Give me a break here, Delgado."

"Why? You invited me here, barely said two words to me, then you sat there sullen as a stone for a half hour while you shoveled food into your face."

"Fine!" he snarls and pivots away, long hair flying. "Just forget it."

She watches him kick at the carpet until she can't take it anymore. He's clearly sulking and, as usual, she softens toward him, pulls a deep breath and gives him another chance.

"All right. I'm sorry, Todd… you caught me off guard. What's going on?"

"Uh-uh," he pouts. "Too late, Delgado."

She shakes her head, chuckles mildly at his petulance and turns to leave.

"Hey, Delgado."

" _Yes_ , Todd," she sighs wearily, casting a glance at him over her shoulder. His expression is darker, oddly intense.

"Put your stuff down and come here," he says.

She frowns, bristling at the tone of command and continues toward the door… but a tug of curiosity slows her.

"God, you are so weird today," she grumbles and turns, bites her lip as she regards him. He's obviously up to something... and she might as well play along. She takes her time placing her things on the nearby armchair and approaches him, cautiously.

"Well?" she says.

Usually he doesn't maintain eye contact with her for more than a few seconds, but now he locks in... and she feels probed, like he's looking for a weakness… or maybe something else…

"Face the desk," he says.

" _Excuse_  me?"

"Christ, Delgado, for once in your life, don't argue with me!"

She blows out a sigh, turns warily toward the desk like she expects a nasty surprise… and stops only partway. Instantly he's behind her, his warm breath ruffling her hair. She jumps, gives a little yelp.

"Shh, nothing's gonna happen…," he says.

"Okaaaay. What does that mean?"

"It means, if something happens, it'll confuse things. I don't want things confused."

Before she can ask what the hell he's talking about, she feels large, warm hands on her hips, turning her fully toward the desk... and instinctively she freezes like prey in an open field. In four months of marriage he's barely touched her, and never intimately. But now he's leaning against her lightly, pressing his lips to her ear…

"Nothing can happen, Delgado. Nothing  _will_  happen."

She shakes her head to clear it, tries not to sound breathless. "Is this one of your mind games, Todd? Are you trying to make a fool out of me? Because I don't know what to think here."

"No need to think. Nothing's happening. Now lay your hands on the desk."

She's stunned, intrigued… and in spite of herself, in spite of always needing clarity and rules and context… she does as he says. She bends slightly at the waist, lays her palms flat on the wood surface, spreads her fingers… and catches her breath as she feels his hands slide slowly from her hips... and lower until they're cupping her bottom, molding to her curves, long fingers squeezing…

"Todd, if you want… why not just… just—," she stammers, half on fire.

"—Shhh. I don't want anything. Nothing's happening."

His hands glide up again, warm and slow over her hips, around her waist, coming to rest on her flat, tense stomach. He pauses there as though giving her a chance to lunge free and slug him... but she doesn't breathe, doesn't move. And with a low sigh, he gently pulls her back against his body.

Her knees are weakening, but she manages to find words. "What are you saying… that you're not actually doing anything?"

"Exactly. Because that would confuse things. Understand?" His voice is a deep, soft rumble as he nestles his mouth into the curve of her neck.

She's torn between her body and her mind, thrown off kilter by his bizarre logic. She could argue with him, demand to know what this means in the grand scheme of their contract, their platonic marriage… or she could relax into his game, revel in his sudden desire for her… let him do whatever he'll do…

His hands on her stomach are strong, full of promise. She loves his hands — the graceful motion of them, the long, tapered fingers. And his body behind hers is so much larger and more solid than it appears in his baggy tailored suits. His lips are poised near her ear as though he's waiting for a sign…

She takes a deep breath, deliberately shuts down her protesting mind and lifts her hand from the desk. "I understand," she murmurs, as she weaves her fingers into his long, silky hair.

And with that, he makes a low, urgent sound, bites down on her throat and abruptly thrusts his hands under her skirt. Before she can react, he's touching her through her nylons and silk panties. She shudders, pitches forward with a cry… but his arms are strong around her, holding her upright and flush against his body… restraining her, but not quite…

"If something were to happen," he says in a rough whisper. "It would look like this. Exactly like this."

He slips his fingers inside her panties then, into her wet, exquisitely sensitive contours... and the same Todd who for four months refused to touch her, boldly strokes her now, explores her, holds her tight as she mewls and parts her thighs for him...

She's stunned, overwhelmed by this sensual, dominant display from him. Despite her fantasies, she had no idea what he'd be like — his NO SEX EVER rule has been iron-clad, non-negotiable… and increasingly frustrating and unfathomable to her. But somehow, he seems to have found a crazy little loophole he can live with, a kind of  _plausible deniability_ … and she's not about to challenge the pretense... not here in his office, in broad daylight, Chinese take-out boxes strewn on his desk, with his fingers moving so skillfully, making her tremble…

Lost in shock, lost in sensation, she whimpers and moans as he rubs deeply now, presses inside, thumb brushing her clit. His lips and tongue are ruthless on her throat, his erection rocking into the curve of her ass…

"God, if this were happening, you'd be so wet... I'd make you feel so good," he growls, breath like liquid heat on her throat. "This is what I would do to you, if I could."

Her hips stutter and roll as his hand moves faster.

"But you can't…," she inhales the words, eyes slamming shut at the intense, mounting pleasure…

"I can't."

"And this isn't happening."

"Nothing is happening. You have to remember that."

"So… so I can't... come…," she gasps, straining, so close…

She feels him shudder around her, his voice low in his chest. "No. That can't happen. You can't do that. You can't…"

And he finishes the sentence with a single word, breathed directly into her ear like a command…

"Come."

It rips through her like white-hot lava. She cries out, shudders violently. "I'm not... I wouldn't…," she gasps, grinding down on his fingers.

"Good… that's so good," he whispers, his free hand slipping over her mouth as he thrusts hard against her. She collapses in slow motion in his arms... and when she goes slack, he holds her tight for several long moments as though needing something more... but he lets her go and backs away unsteadily, adjusting his clothes like he doesn't know quite where he is…

And she sways on very shaky legs, mind reeling, body quivering with aftershocks… and as she gradually returns to reality, she smooths down her skirt and hair with trembling hands, sighs out a gust of air that ruffles the papers on his blotter. It takes her a moment to find her voice. She knows she shouldn't ask, should let it go… but she can't help herself.

"Todd—," she says, the word punctuated by little shivers.

He cuts her off instantly.

"—Don't. It was nothing. Nothing happened. I told you before, Delgado," he says roughly, clears his throat and drops heavily into the chair behind his desk. "Nothing can happen. Nothing will happen."

But he's not looking at her — he's watching his thumb run slowly over the wetness glistening on his fingers…

The sight ignites a spasm between her legs. "Okay, Todd," she says, more weakly than she'd like. "And is there…  _nothing_  I can do for you?"

"Nope. I'm good. Thanks for stopping by." He picks up the pencil again and taps it rapidly on his desk. His skin is flushed and damp with sweat…

And he's dismissing her, just like that. She hates being dismissed… almost as much as she hates the idea of this ending so abruptly. "Todd, you're always complaining that I push, but—"

"—So don't push," he says, eyes narrowing.

She huffs a laugh."Oh, come on. As long as that…  _didn't happen_ , can't we make some other things…  _not happen_?"

He throws the pencil down, shoves his chair back, gets up and heads for the door with long strides, hair trailing out behind him…

"Don't ruin it, Delgado," he snarls.

"I don't want to ruin it," she says, forcing the words out through the pain of so many past rejections. "I want to… reciprocate."

He stops, gapes at her. "Here?  _Hell_  no. Cut it out."

"Oh, you're suddenly shy? I seem to recall someone dry humping my butt just now—,"

"—Hey, quiet!" He shoots a furtive glance at the frosted glass windows on the door. "Look, this is a place of business. I have employees, very impressionable young employees. And very old employees. Decrepit almost. What kind of example—,"

"—I know you're aroused, Todd," she blurts out, eyes moving from his face to his groin and back again. After all these months of imagining how it would be to touch him, to give him pleasure, it was shockingly erotic to feel his erection… and the memory makes her drop her chin, bite her lower lip, gaze up at him through her lashes…

He stares at her, his mouth falling open. "Oh  _fuck_ ," he rasps. "Not that look."

"My question is," she says, thrilled to make him squirm. "What are you going to do about that arousal?"

He turns away as though shielding himself. "You already asked a question, Delgado. The  _are you suddenly shy_  thing."

"Todd…"

"Whatever," he grumbles. "I'm not gonna do anything about it."

"So, just another celibate night in Todd's lonely world."

"You got it."

She leans on the edge of the couch to steady herself, tries to catch his eye but he's staring at his shoes.

"Well, if you're not going to do anything about it," she says, making her voice as warm as honey. "Can I?"

He stiffens, jaw working, says nothing.

"Why don't we call it… a demonstration of what could happen," she says, because it's far too late to back down now, and if he rejects her… well, what's once more…

"How many times do I have to say it, Delgado — nothing can happen, nothing  _will_  happen. Today was just… I was…"

"What?"

He scowls at her, crosses his arms tight over his chest, nervous energy shooting from him like sparks. "I don't know… bored. Whatever. Quit playing around. Seriously. I've got work to do."

She steps up to him, tentatively reaches for him, sees his face cloud with a brew of fear, longing, hostility... but he doesn't flinch away. She ghosts her hand over the swell in his trousers… barely touching. But even through the fabric, she can feel him, hard and hot.

"Cut it out," he growls.

"Cut what out?" she murmurs. "Nothing's happening."

He searches her face, seems to collapse a bit…

"That's right. It would... ruin everything," he says.

She strokes him, just the lightest pressure over his erection. "Not if nothing happens," she whispers… to urge, to reassure… to convince herself that this, today, just this once... this could be enough for her…

She takes his hand… and he lets her. She guides him down onto the sofa and he sits, nostrils flaring, tongue moving behind his upper lip in that anxious way of his…

"So you won't actually  _do_  anything," he says, looking hunted.

"Not a thing. Just like you didn't do anything to me."

Heart slamming in her chest, she locks into his eyes and slowly sinks to the floor between his knees, slides her hands up his thighs to his belt... and as she smoothly pulls the leather free of the buckle, unhitches, unbuttons... his apprehension rolls over her like heavy waves.

He grabs her wrist, stops her progress. "This isn't happening," he says.

She smiles sweetly, playing the game. "Of course not."

He grunts out some unformed syllables, lets go a shaky breath and releases her wrist. She expects that at any moment he'll bat her away... but he doesn't resist as she lowers his zipper, rubbing her knuckles over his erection through his black boxer-briefs. He grits his teeth, drops his head back, hisses as she traces his contours, gently strokes his length through the thin cotton, teases around the flare with her fingertips…

Flush with heat and intense arousal, she lowers the briefs just enough to free his tip. She brushes the silken skin with her thumb, spreads the drop of pre-come in slow, soft circles, and when he groans, clutches the sofa cushions with both hands and rocks helplessly into her touch, she feels euphoric, high as a kite…

So she withdraws her hands and sits back on her heels.

"If something were to happen," she says, folding her hands in her lap, cool as can be. "It would look like this. Exactly like this."

He freezes, eyes flying wide at the ceiling, and she smiles evilly to herself. A little payback for all the rejection and mind games, for months of him being an all-around unrelenting prick…

"But nothing can happen," she adds, licking her lips. "You said so yourself."

He takes a moment, sucks in air, seems to fight for language and control. "That's right," he grinds out. "It would confuse things. It would fuck everything up."

He heaves a sigh, lowers his chin, eyes dark and unfocused, and though he's motionless, it seems to her that every cell in his body is yearning toward her as she kneels on the floor between his legs…

She watches him with a small, challenging smile, and waits…

Fortunately, it's a very brief standoff.

He half-groans, half-snarls, reaches down and gently runs his thumb over her lower lip. "Good thing you don't want this either, then," he says.

"I don't. Not at all." She licks his thumb, draws it into her mouth, sucks slowly, never breaking eye-contact…

"So if neither of us wants it...," he murmurs, transfixed.

She pulls his thumb from her mouth, gives it a long, sensuous stroke with her tongue. "Then it's not really happening."

Something seems to break in him at that. Eyes hot on her, he slips his hands into her hair, sinks back into the cushions and pulls her toward him…

"Don't do it then," he groans. "Don't do anything to me…"

"I won't," she whispers, burning for him. "Not a thing."

She leans in close and reaches for him again, eagerly wraps her hand around his thick, straining shaft. She closes her eyes and absorbs every detail as she slowly takes him between her lips…

And with one arm draped over his brow, the other in her hair, he lets her do nothing to him, absolutely nothing… until eventually he stiffens, cries out, shudders into her mouth… and there's nothing left to do.

**_To be continued..._ **


	2. Chapter 2

Téa has been much cooler about this whole _nothing_ thing than Todd would have imagined. He’d been holding his breath for days after that incident in his office, on guard against every glance and movement in case she might try to initiate something more or, God forbid, want to _talk_ about it. But she’s kept her distance, hasn’t brought it up. Almost like it was no big deal, or she’s relieved to have finally gotten that sex stuff out of her system…

Meanwhile, he can’t stop thinking about her mouth, the things she did with it, how good it felt after so many years of nothing but his own hand. He wouldn’t mind a bit more of that from time to time — a hot, spontaneous non-coital hook up, then a quick fade back to normal life like nothing happened. Because nothing can happen, nothing will happen… nothing _real_. Just keep it light and simple. Maybe that could work for them… if she can handle it…

He rubs his thumb over his fingers. His cock twitches at the memory of how wet she was… how wet he made her. He hadn’t been sure he still had it in him, if he could still read cues, would know what to do. Her face had been hidden from him as he’d touched her; he’s been trying to imagine it, but since he’s never seen her in the throes of orgasm he can’t conjure an image. It’s probably for the best — keep it impersonal, just bodies doing what bodies do…

But the truth is, what happened in that office changed things. He’s painfully aware of her now — how she bends to pick up her briefcase, the dip in her voice when she says his name, the way her hands dance as she speaks. He finds himself staring at her when she’s unaware, but he’s careful not to let her catch him, not to complicate things…

He could get her to his office again on some pretense. That would be the easiest solution to this mounting… pressure. He doesn’t want to do anything at the penthouse — too intimate, too much like being married. And afterward, memories would be everywhere, inescapable…

“You look so intense, Todd. Calculating the crappiest possible tip?”

The Palace Restaurant comes to life around him, silverware clanking on china plates, muted conversation, low music, and Téa opposite him in that light blue skirt suit, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin. Her hair is up in a twist, her neck is long, arching…

Todd sits up, runs a hand over his face. Crumbs fall from his goatee and he sweeps them off the long, white tablecloth and onto the floor. He’s half hard, jogs his knee under the table. He likes this table; she’s on a banquette against the wall, he’s in a chair opposite her, his back to the room. Ordinarily he’d hate that, feel vulnerable, but there’s a mirror above her head that he uses to secretly keep an eye on what his enemies — both proven and potential — are up to... 

“They can’t make a decent Rueben in this joint to save their lives,” he grumbles, shoving his chair back.

“Then why do you keep ordering it?”

“Hope springs eternal, Delgado. You know that.”

She laughs lightly, folds her napkin and lays it next to her empty lunch plate. “You did eat your soup with a spoon instead of guzzling it right out of the bowl. That’s a step in the right direction.” Her fingers are long and delicate, tipped with red.

He sniffs, runs his tongue over his teeth, feels like he’s crawling out of his skin.

“Why so jumpy, Todd?”

He abruptly gets up from his chair, moves around the table and drops down next to her on the banquette. She leans away warily and eyes him up and down.

“Todd…?”

The blonde server he’s been torturing throughout lunch ventures over, opens her mouth to speak but he cuts her off.

“Coffee,” he barks. “Fresh pot. None of that stale crap with grounds floating in it.”

She moves off with a frozen, shell-shocked smile.

“What the hell has gotten _into_ you?” Téa demands.

“Nothing,” he says, knee jogging again.

They’re both facing out into the busy restaurant now. Without quite meaning to, he moves his hand under the tablecloth and lays it on her thigh. It’s reckless and stupid, but he can’t help himself.

She jerks her leg as though trying to shake off a humping dog. “What are you _doing_?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” he repeats, pointedly. “ _Nothing_ is happening. Understand?”

She glares at him a moment, then he sees comprehension dawn. Her eyes fly wide, dart around the room, and she laughs, stunned. “ _Here_?”

“Here,” he says, low and serious. “Right here.” He slides his hand up her thigh, wishing for skin, but pantyhose are an annoying fact of life. He moves underneath her skirt, slides between her legs…

She flinches, clamps her thighs shut on his hand. “Todd,” she says, a ferocious whisper, eyeing the other diners in a near panic. “It’s too obvious.”

“Really?” he drawls. “You want me to stop… now?”

She drags her eyes to his, bites her lip. He watches her intricate mind go to work, weighing, evaluating… before her expression goes smoky, with an edge of mischief.

She parts her thighs.

His mouth is dry, heart pounding, but he manages to look around the dining room with his customary contempt… and slide his hand up Téa’s thigh until he finds her heat through thin layers of nylon and silk. He presses, begins to gently rub…

She whimpers, clears her throat as a busboy arrives and noisily stacks their plates. “Was everything to your liking?” he says brightly.

“Just fine,” Téa says with a forced smile.

“Dandy,” Todd growls. “Go away.”

Téa draws a deep breath, picks up her big boxy purse from beside her and sets it on the table in front of them, angling it like a shield against prying eyes. She gracefully smooths her hair into place, lowers her hand… and Todd jumps, gulps back a yelp when she grabs his erection through his trousers.

“Hey! Cut it out,” he hisses through the side of him mouth.

“What’s good for the goose…,” she replies.

He tries to edge away from her, but she’s got him good, starts to massage. A groan escapes before he can stifle it; he coughs to cover.

“Delgado!” he grunts through clenched teeth.

“Really?” she whispers, mimicking his own words and tone. “You want me to stop… _now_?”

He hesitates. She’s pumping him slowly and it feels hot and incredible. He answers her question by subtly pushing himself up into her hand, notices her triumphant little smirk and retaliates by rubbing her so hard she mewls.

They look off in opposite directions then, nonchalantly surveying the room as their hands are busy down below. Nothing to see here… just two people waiting for their coffee…

She’s damp, yielding, spreading her thighs wide. He presses deeper, frustrated that he can’t sink his fingers inside her, has to content himself with finding the swollen spot in her now familiar contours and stroking, grinding as she tilts her hips for him…

Everything about this has him rock hard. Just a little bit of mutual lunchtime masturbation, right under the sneering noses of Llanview’s finest, most self-righteous citizens. Oh, and look, there’s nephew Kevin, strolling in with Cassie on his arm. Todd snickers evilly, points them out to Téa with his free hand while stroking her mercilessly under the table.

She jerks and stiffens with a helpless sound that makes his cock leap. He’s careful to keep his arm still, only move his fingers, trying to be as cool as she is… and God, is she cool. You’d never know from her relaxed upper body and slightly bored expression that she’s on the edge of orgasm, that her hand is working him through his trousers like a pro. She’s made for this kind of shit.

The thought tightens his balls, forces a low grunt. He’s close, should stop her before he makes a mess, but that’s why suit jackets have buttons. His face is hot, probably flushed, a bit of perspiration on his brow. He’d mop it with a napkin, but his other hand is busy clutching the edge of the banquette, nails digging in…

Servers in starched white aprons and busboys with trays glide past them, but no one spares them a glance. Téa is straining, making little rhythmic breath sounds… higher and tighter, and when she suddenly goes rigid and bites her lip, eyelids fluttering, it’s so arousing to him that he makes more noise than she does — a growl deep in his throat — and as she grips him, gives him a few final, ruthless tugs, he swallows down what would certainly be a sharp, attention-grabbing cry, his fist clenching, hips jerking with the power of his own orgasm…

It takes a few moments to come down, to regroup and focus. He drags his hand from under her skirt, rests it heavily on her knee before raising it and stroking his goatee to get the scent of her. She watches, a blush blooming in her cheeks, and gives him a private half-smile as she slides her trembling hand from his lap. She straightens her posture, draws her composure around herself like a shawl, lifts the purse from the table and sets it beside her on the banquette again. He thinks of the curtain closing at the end of a play…

The blonde server appears, coffee sloshing as she timidly sets the full cups before them, arranges sugar, cream, teaspoons…

Todd becomes aware of wet heat on his groin, shifts uncomfortably, leans back and scowls at her. “What the hell took you so long.”

“Now be nice, we’re not in a rush. Sometimes it’s good to just sit... and do nothing,” Téa says, eyeing him with playful heat. “Isn’t it, Todd?”

“Whatever,” he grumbles, reminds himself to button his jacket before wending his way through this roomful of vipers… and he bites back a smile.

  _ **To be continued...**_


	3. Chapter 3

It becomes clear to Téa in the days after the  _non-event_  at the Palace Restaurant that she and Todd are engaged in a dance of approach/avoidance…

She'll glance up from whatever mundane thing she's doing — making scrambled eggs, reviewing a brief, picking up Starr's toys from the floor — to find him watching her, his expression cloaked. At first she'd smile or start to speak, but he'd just glower and turn his head like she'd accused him of something. So now when she feels his eyes, she just lets him look and focuses on her task. Maybe she'll move more slowly, more gracefully, arch her back a bit, maybe she'll wet her lips, leave a button open, hike her skirt a little higher when she crosses her legs. It's not performative, per se, but if he's going to look, she might as well give him something to look  _at_ …

And so far, looking is the extent of it; when she accidentally brushes against him in the kitchen or their fingers touch as they tuck Starr in at night, he jerks away like she's diseased. Yet he's miraculously begun helping her on with her coat. He makes sure there's gas in her car. He calls when he'll be late. And just today he almost smiled at her for no reason whatsoever…

She knows it has to do with this  _Nothing is Happening_  game of his. It's a bizarre pretense that gives his long exiled sexual needs some cover — and it's exciting and hot and she's certainly not complaining — but it's left them both flummoxed. She's trying to suss out the rules, but there don't seem to be any… beyond indulging Todd's mercurial whims. She's dying to initiate an encounter, but he'll no doubt go skittering away and they'll have to rebuild this… whatever  _this_  is… from scratch, if at all… so she just hangs back and watches, with the same patience required to gain the trust of a feral animal. And in the meantime, she's enjoying the contact and small gestures as they come…

#

She's curled in a chair in the living room, reading The Banner, cozy in jeans, bare feet and an oversized sweater. He'd made a crack about giving aid and comfort to the enemy, but she hates the yellow junk he prints in The Sun and he knows it. He's sprawled on the couch, ostensibly watching the news, but he's really watching her… particularly her feet… and she lets him. He's radiating a nervous energy she can feel across the room — jaw working, body restless, slight sheen of perspiration on his face. She recognizes the signs of a horny Todd now, so she smiles to herself, and waits.

He suddenly gets up from the couch, a concentrated tornado of energy.

"Let's go for a ride," he says, stalking to the desk. He grabs his car keys from the tray, his coat from the back of the chair and heads for the door. "Come on, Delgado!" he barks when he sees she hasn't moved.

She doesn't look up, just scans the Personals. "What am I, Todd, a dog?" she says with feigned disinterest. "It's nearly midnight, it's the middle of winter—,"

"—We're in a heatwave. It's all over the news," he says, yanking on his coat.

"Twenty degrees is not a heatwave."

"It's balmy. Come on, the Porsche needs exercise. How often do I ask you to go for a ride with me, Delgado? Just do it."

She sighs, sets aside the paper, and gets to her feet. He's watching her hard as she slips on her shoes and stretches luxuriously, arms high over head, back arching. She saunters to the closet, takes her coat, but he doesn't help her on with it this time; he's busy standing by the open door, impatiently pinwheeling his arm, ushering her out…

#

It's a crystal-clear night, black sky salted with stars. Todd is driving much too fast up Llantano mountain, and she's curious, wonders what he has in mind, if they're heading to Viki's cabin for a little taste of  _nothing_ …

She's tried occasionally to engage him in conversation, but each time he's shut her down with stony silence… so she watches the headlights sweep the dense wintry woods, illuminating sharp curves at the last moment. His speed is unnerving, and she gasps, grips the door strap, braces against the dashboard as a deer leaps into their path. He laughs at her and casually steers around it, his head subtly moving with the rhythm of John Coltrane on the car stereo. His mastery over this vehicle is impressive — how attuned he is to every sound… intuiting just when to clutch, shift, never braking as he moves effortlessly into and out of the hairpin turns up the mountain. His nervous energy is gone, replaced by a quiet exhilaration… and she gradually settles back in the plush leather seat, confident she's in good hands.

She takes the opportunity to observe him by the blue dashboard lights: the hook-shaped scar, full lips, the defiantly long and luxuriant hair. She forgets sometimes that he's a very wealthy man, but the cashmere coat, French cuffs, custom cologne and Italian leather shoes remind her. He's the kind of man she used to dream about, growing up in her windowless basement apartment, and she wonders what he would do if she were to lay a hand on his thigh right now… would he slap her away? What if she were to lean over, open his trousers and go down on him. Would he struggle to maintain control of the car and of himself… would he hold her head and thrust into her mouth… or would he pull over and kick her out?

She banishes the images, ignores the tingle between her legs as the car slows, and he steers into a clearing high above the city. He stops wordlessly, keeps the car idling, and gets out, letting in a gust of bitter cold. She watches him close the door, move to the front of the car and sit back against the hood. Curious, she gets out too, arms wrapping around herself against the wind, and joins him. They sit side by side in silence, just looking at the winking lights of the city stretched out below.

"This is where I'm gonna build my house," he says at last, into a cloud of breath. "A real house… a home, for Shorty. She deserves that."

Téa is less surprised by his directness than the wistful tone.

"Yes, she does. That would be wonderful, Todd."

He stands upright and starts gesturing around them with his gloved hands. "I'm gonna put in a huge playroom here," he says. "And I'm gonna knock out those trees back there and put in a castle and a big bouncy house, and the stables and pasture will go over there. And to get to town fast, I'm thinking of installing one of those… what are those things they have in Switzerland?"

She blinks, trying to keep up. "A ski lift?"

"No, but that's not a bad idea. Those things that dangle from a cable…,"

"A gondola?"

"Yeah. No. Is that it? Isn't that a boat? Anyway, it can go from up here straight to the roof of the Manning Building, right by the helipad. You can handle all the paperwork."

"And all the lawsuits, Todd. You can't just commandeer air space—,"

"—Quiet, Delgado, I'm blue-skying. Yeah, and I can put in one of those zip-lines, but that's just for me. You and Shorty'll use the gondola thing. She'll love it."

His bright eyes are scanning the valley, hair lifted by the wind, cheeks reddening in the cold. She can't help but enjoy his excitement, get drawn in, especially since his plans seem to include her…

"Shouldn't you buy the land, before all this blue-skying?" she says.

"Don't need to. I own it."

"You own this? Todd, I've reviewed your holdings. I don't remember—,"

"—Gotta have some secrets, Delgado."

She nods, eyeing him, feeling as always like she's only seeing the tip of a very deep, very substantial iceberg. She wonders what other secrets he might be keeping, finds that she's shivering and turns to go back to the car.

"Hey," he says, gently grabbing the lapels of her coat. "In a minute, okay?" He hesitates, tentatively wraps one arm around her… and after a long pause, the other. His body is tense but he pulls her closer until he's holding her in an awkward embrace. She doesn't move. A reciprocal grabbing of his crotch in a public place is one thing, but this — suspended between heaven and earth, sharing dreams on a wooded outcrop — this is dangerously close to intimate. And if she responds with as much affection as she's feeling, he might go skittering away…

But when she feels the warmth of his lips in her hair, hears him breathing her in, she risks slipping an arm around his waist, laying her head on his chest… and is surprised that he relaxes with a shaky sigh. They stand that way a few minutes, in the wind and the cold; she longs to sink against the solid strength of his body, but instead she distracts herself by trying to visualize this future home of his… and her possible place in it…

He stirs, drops his arms. "Okay. Let's get outta here." His voice is thick; he clears his throat a few times as he gets back in the car. She gets in her side, welcome heat and John Coltrane wafting over her. He starts to shift into gear, stops, looks over at her with soft eyes. He lifts his hand and touches his knuckle to her cheek.

"So pink," he says.

"So cold," she replies, chafing her arms, a shiver running through her at the touch. His hand remains, his eyes are on hers, then they slip to her mouth. He's never kissed her, despite everything else they've done… but he leans in now, tentatively brushes his lips over hers, lingers, breath so warm on her skin, then he kisses her properly… with slow, gentle pressure, his mouth opening, tongue shyly touching hers…

He abruptly pulls away and sits back, gloved hands gripping the steering wheel, and he stares straight ahead, jaw clenching…

_Skittering away… skittering away…_

"That was sweet, Todd," she says quickly, moved and breathless but knowing he needs an out. "You tend to get all gooey and sentimental when you think of Starr. I know that's all it was."

He shoots her a glance and throws the car into reverse, tires squealing. "You got it, Delgado," he grumbles. "It meant nothing. Not a damn thing."

And other than the purr of the engine and a low jazz accompaniment, they drive home in silence.

_**To be continued...** _


	4. Chapter 4

Todd wipes beer foam from his goatee and signals the bartender for another pint. He's already got one empty on the bar in front of him, this one's only half done, but he wants to keep up the momentum.

Rodi's is the same as always — loud music, mix of college kids, locals, biker types, the usual smattering of enemies. Just enough to keep him on guard, keep things interesting. He comes here when he needs a reality check, a reminder that despite a nice suit and a kid, he hasn't changed anymore in five years than this place has. He doesn't need to look around at any of it, just stays hunched on his barstool and thinks about ghosts.

Marty sprawled in his lap at that table over there… before he took her home and lit the spark that torched his life. Luna in the alley splitting his face in two with a steel pipe. He shoves his tongue against his right cheek, ballooning out his scar. He's a fan of that scar now — it's shorthand, tells the world everything it needs to know… and never lets him forget what's living inside. And he met Blair right on this very stool, wrathful and blonde and sexy as hell. He was the freshly pardoned town pariah with a room upstairs, janitor job at the hospital, ankle bracelet… not a single thing to live for, but he stayed alive because that's what he does. And she was the only one who didn't treat him like garbage.

But he doesn't want her anymore.

He drains the beer, rolls the sweaty glass between his palms. Three nights away from Delgado. God, did he need that. Sleeping in his office is never comfortable, but it's his penance for getting sentimental and it helped purge his system of all that family crap. He doesn't know what he was thinking, stopping by the overlook on his way up to Viki's cabin. The idea had been just to get Delgado alone somewhere — anywhere but the penthouse — and continue this weird game he started… but he got sidetracked. Won't happen again.

He eyes the abandoned plate of fries on the bar nearby, but resists. Delgado hates when he scrounges food. He should just go home tonight... but he's not ready to deal with her yet. She'd been frosty on the phone last night, picked it up in the midst of him telling the answering machine he wouldn't be home again…

"Oh for God's sake, Todd, will you just grow up," she'd snapped, and hung up on him. It left him grouchy and vaguely guilty.

_What the hell was her problem_? He had work to do. He didn't  _have_  to call, you know…

But at least he got to hear her voice…

A familiar husky laugh makes him swivel around on the barstool; he sees Téa across the room, in a corner booth with Rachel Gannon. Téa's back is to him, but Rachel spots him in the same instant he spots her, and her brilliant smile evaporates. They glare at each other like rival bulls. Téa glances over her shoulder, gives him a long, punishing look, returns to Rachel and they put their heads together, whispering. Todd scowls, turns back to his beer, grabs a cold french fry from the nearby plate, mutters  _Rachel fucking Gannon_ and shoves it in his mouth.

It's too crowded here. Too many couples and groups, too much lively conversation. It's enough to make a guy like him feel lonely and resentful, but Téa's laughter rings out again and a bizarre contentment washes over him. He belongs somewhere, maybe for the first time. He has  _people_ … and one of them is here, even though she's currently pissed at him. He swivels around again, leans back, elbow on the bar, and watches her. Her shiny dark hair sways as she speaks, leans in to make a point, throws her head back to laugh. Her elegant, red-tipped fingers lift a martini to her lips, and when she lowers it, he notices the arc of her lipstick on the glass. He remembers that lipstick on his cock when she got through with him in his office that day. He keeps watching, like any guy in a bar would watch a woman. Normal scenario… and he starts to feel the buzz of it — a horny guy on the make. A young, horny guy. Despite Delgado's opinion, he hasn't felt young in… forever. He's always been haunted or burdened by one thing or another, and now that he's got a kid, a wife, a business, too much money to count, he never expected to feel free again… but bizarrely, he does. He feels good.

He intercepts a passing server, orders a round of drinks for the booth and scans the room, evaluating. He didn't used to go for brunettes, but of all the women here, all the young, shapely flesh, tall and small, all the pretty, soft-skinned faces… he would choose her. Even over that statuesque blonde eyeing him from the corner. He would choose Téa.

When their drinks arrive, the server gestures in his direction. Téa turns, narrows her eyes, but nods in acknowledgement. Rachel looks murderous, shakes her head and whispers something — a sound like vipers hissing that reaches him across the room. He raises his glass to her with an evil grin, and she glowers at him, gathers her things and leaves… his offering untouched.

Téa slides out of the booth, gets unsteadily to her feet. She's wearing a skirt suit in a dark red color, probably named after some fancy wine. She picks up her martini and approaches, slow and slinky, keeping her eyes on him.

"Thanks for the drink," she says, stopping close. She takes a sip, leaving a fresh lipstick mark on the glass. His cock twitches.

"You looked thirsty," he says.

She takes her time responding, her dark eyes surveying him critically, head to toe. Finally her lips curve into an opaque smile. "You look like a man who could use a lawyer."

"That right?" He surveys her in return… maybe a little more lasciviously. "You a lawyer looking to be used?"

Her eyes widen, head tilts. She bites her lip.

"I could be," she says, speech slightly slurred. "By the right client."

"Well," he says, turning and setting his pint on the bar. He wipes his hand on his thigh, spreads his legs a bit wider, laces his fingers together in front of him. "I'm a janitor at the hospital, looking to get back on my feet. Can't pay you much."

"My fee is negotiable."

"I'm a bastard to work with. All my lawyers say so."

"I'm tougher than I look," she says, leaning her hip against his knee. "Besides, I like a challenge."

"Then you've come to the right place."

She reaches past him, breast brushing his arm, and sets her martini on the bar. She takes his hands. He resists as she tries to tug him to his feet and toward the dance floor.

"Look… no," he says, wanting to pause the game. "I don't dance."

She ducks her chin, gives him a killer pout. "Too bad. Guess I'll find someone else," she purrs, turns, hips swaying as she begins to walk away. He grabs her wrist.

"Like hell," he growls, and slips off the stool to his feet. He's a little unsteady, too, but moves a few steps onto the dance floor, takes her left hand in his right, plants his other on her hip. He begins shuffling his feet, feeling like an idiot, but it's short lived — her scent is surrounding him, her eyes are dark and liquid, looking up at him. He feels the familiar charge at being near her — the tightness in his throat, the stirring in his groin. She sloppily slides her arms around his neck, and presses into him, breasts to his chest, pelvis moving against his with each of his uncertain steps. Yet she's following him effortlessly, feels as weightless as one of his ghosts. But she's real. She's his, and somehow she's forgiven him yet again. The three beers have loosened him up and he tunes into the music — some lame power ballad — finds the beat and risks closing his eyes. At a sharp burst of laughter nearby, he snaps them open, his hackles up, ready to pounce… but the laughter has nothing to do with him, so he exhales tension, closes his eyes again and tries to really feel her. He's held her before — from behind in his office the day this whole game started, in the cold the other night, through layers of coats… but never face to face, embracing like this. She's rocking her hips into his now, her palm is stroking the length of his hair… and when he feels her lips on his throat, it's a zap of electricity to his crotch. She found one of his most sensitive spots, the one that sends him from zero to sixty in no time. He reflexively thrusts against her, wraps his arms around her… and soon they're grinding together on Rodi's dance floor.

She's openly kissing his neck, tongue snaking out, pressing every button... and though they're surrounded by strangers and enemies alike, he doesn't end this, doesn't retreat. It's okay to be seen — it's a  _fuck you_  to anyone who thought this marriage was a fake. He focuses on the movements of her warm, slender body, her lips on his skin, the tender bites. Silent moans are vibrating in his throat as he responds to her, giving himself away — she must feel it, she knows this vulnerability now. Yet he's lost in what she's stirring up; the sensuous, erotic, dangerous feelings he's recently found a way to channel. Nothing is happening, he tells himself. Nothing can happen. Nothing  _real_.

But this isn't real. It's role playing, it's fantasy. A loser ex-con picking up a hot lawyer in a dive bar. She's obviously into him, is pulling his head down, kissing him, her lips soft but demanding. He kisses her back, hungrily, forces her mouth open, pushes his tongue inside. As her body shivers, she both clings to him and melts in his arms, and it's a signal he's understood for years — he can have her now. He scans the familiar building in his mind — the stairwells, the kitchen, the dark place in the hallway around the corner from the pay phones that always smells like beer and bodies and sex. That's it. But she won't want that, not this classy lady… but maybe she would, maybe that's why she's here — he doesn't know her, after all…

Their kiss has grown much too heated for this public place and they break it as one, then go back for breathless seconds before they can stop themselves. He rocks his erection against her purposefully… and when she mewls into his mouth, he makes his decision. Entwined, devouring each other, he moves them as one organism, turning their bodies, maneuvering away from the crowd toward the back wall, toward the hallway and the dark place. She's passive, following him like they're still dancing, willingly going where he's taking her…

The hallway is cool and stale. His mouth is on her throat now, biting and sucking, hands grabbing her perfect round ass, kneading, pulling her body tight against him. Only a few more steps, past the blue glow of the cigarette machine, around the corner from the pay phones… and then they're in darkness. Half frenzied, he turns her, presses her against the wall, mouths locked and wet. He shoves his hands under her skirt and with little, desperate sounds, she's helping him, shifting, grappling with her clothes… and then he feels her bare thigh curling around his hip. He moves his hand and finds her pussy, rubs into the wetness as she spasms and goes crazy, her hands tearing at the front of his pants, unzipping, reaching in to grab him and pump. Her urgency shudders through him and he wraps his hands around her thighs, hoists her up against the wall too roughly, and then she's sinking down on him, engulfing his cock in the most incredible heat and pressure. He rams up, feels like he's about to collapse with the intense pleasure, forgot how  _fucking great_  this feels, and begins thrusting, his head bent, forehead hard on her shoulder. She's trembling everywhere, huffing and moaning, arms tight around his neck, thighs flexing in his hands, pussy grinding down, squeezing him… and fuck, there's no way he can last…

Music thrums dully in the other room and it's dark here, but not so dark that he can't lift his head and see her in the creeping blue glow of the cigarette machine — her eyes closed tight, face pleasure-soaked and lost in him. The sight makes him wild, desperate and he thrusts harder, chins the lapel of her jacket aside and bites down on her breast, finds her nipple through her blouse and bra, tongues, sucks, edges it with his teeth. She arches, cries out, shoves her hand between them and he gives her space to frantically rub herself. He can feel everything, every tiny spasm and fuck,  _fuck_  he can't last after so long without this, buried to the hilt in impossible wet hot softness, so tight and perfect, and he feels her sudden explosion like it's happening in his own body, her convulsions wringing his cock, and he clenches his teeth, presses his lips together to silence his cry, but it's like trying to slam a lid on a volcano and the sounds burst out anyway as he comes, hips jerking, fingers gripping soft, bucking flesh, her choked cries and gasping breaths in his hair… and as his own wracking spasms begin to subside he realizes that they just consummated their marriage in the middle of the day in a dark hallway in Rodi's bar, standing in a sticky puddle of domestic beer.

_You deserved so much better_ , he wants to say to her. Instead, he says nothing. His chest heaves as he lowers her to the floor and stumbles back, turns, tucks himself away. His mouth is so dry he couldn't speak anyway. He stabs a glance at her — she's flushed and damp, hair tousled, lips crimson and bitten. She's fucking beautiful, down here at his level. He shakes his jacket out, rakes his own hair smooth, pushes it back with both hands, takes a few awkward steps and tries to give her privacy as she pulls off the other leg of her hose, tucks the filmy thing into her suit pocket, slips on her shoe and adjusts her clothing.

"Have to start wearing stockings," she says with a shy, trembling smile. He manages a half-smile back before jerking his thumb toward the main room. "I'm gonna…," he rasps, clears his throat.

"Okay. I need to…," she trails off, nodding in the direction of the bathrooms far away down the hall. She touches his sleeve. "See you out there?"

"Yeah. 'Course," he grunts, rolls his shoulders, looks left, then right, pivots and walks away.

Back at the bar, he's a raw nerve. They couldn't have been at it for more than a few minutes; his beer is still cold. But everything is different. He feels exposed. No defenses against all the people he hates, all the people who hate him, the ghosts, the memories. No defenses against anything or anyone… especially her. He looks toward the hall, panic overtaking him, drains his remaining beer, peels a fifty from his wallet and throws it on the bar. He glances toward the hall again and gives her one chance — if she shows up by the count of three, he'll stay…

One. Two…

He grabs his coat from the back of the stool, and leaves.

**_To be continued…_ **


	5. Chapter 5

This time it's Téa's turn to stay away. She wasn't angry at Todd for ditching her at Rodi's; in fact she'd half expected it and made only a cursory scan for him when she came back from the bathroom. He was nowhere to be seen amidst the crush of noise and bodies, but she noticed his empty pint glass on the bar, foam still sliding down the inside. She must have just missed him and she bit back a smile at the image of him chugging the beer, grabbing his coat, sprinting the hell away. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

She gathered her things from the booth and slipped onto his abandoned barstool to finish her martini, enjoying the remnants of her delicious orgasm, the memory of surprisingly hot, illicit sex, and of Todd… Todd most of all. His confidence, his urgency and abandon… and she could feel him inside her still, filling her, moving…

No, she's staying away from the penthouse not to punish Todd, but because she wants him to stew a little. Wants him to think about her, miss her. She spent that night and the next at Rachel's, explaining to her that she needed a discreet distance from Todd, that they had danced, flirted, made out a little… but she held the rest back — not only because Rachel had begun to show signs of genuine nausea — but because the rest is private. It's for Todd and Téa alone. And in the days since, she's thought about little else…

It's just before noon on Thursday, and the Llanview police station is unusually crowded. Téa is chatting with the sleepy-looking desk sergeant, tapping her business card absently against her palm, eyes fixed on the dozen or so burly men beginning to face off outside the interrogation room. Her legal practice has stalled since she married Todd, and she's eager to expand her client base — well, she's ambulance-chasing, if she's honest with herself — and this situation looks like it's about to blow, and somebody may end up needing a lawyer…

"Where the hell have you been." A harsh grumble in her ear, a familiar glowering presence behind her.

She doesn't bother to turn. "Well, good morning to you, too, Todd. What brings you here?"

"Lead on a story. Don't change the subject." He stalks around in front of her so she has to look at him. The desk sergeant bristles, but Téa holds up a hand, signaling  _it's okay_ , she's used to this, she's got this…

"And that subject would be…" she says, cocking her head.

"Your whereabouts," Todd growls.

She shrugs, slips her business card into her coat pocket. "Oh, I've been… around."

"Around? You didn't call. Two nights. At least I call. You could have been dead in a ditch."

"Please. Dramatic much? I left messages." She notices the desk sergeant's mildly amused expression, and steps away, Todd snapping close at her heels.

"Yeah, but you didn't say where you were. Shorty was wondering, and I didn't know what to tell her."

"Oh,  _Starr_  was wondering? Well, in the future, just tell her—"

"—In the future? What, you're gonna keep this up?" He leans in, lowers his voice. "This is because of what happened at Rodi's. You're pissed that I didn't stick around."

"On the contrary, Todd," she says. "Why ruin a good thing? If you'd stayed it only would have become awkward. Honestly, I'm glad you left. And the simple fact is, I didn't come home because I didn't feel like coming home. You've repeatedly insisted that we should lead separate lives, and guess what… I finally heard you."

He sputters, reddens, looks at her like she just sprouted horns. She laughs, lays a palm on his cheek and pats it indulgently. "Don't worry, Todd, it's nothing." She drops her hand, retrieves her briefcase from the floor and turns to leave… but he grabs her arm.

" _Hell_  no," he growls and starts tugging at her. She twists away, but he grabs the sleeve of her coat, just as angry shouts erupt from the group clustered by the interrogation room. Elbows begin to fly and within seconds it's a full-fledged brawl, with bodies tumbling and blue uniforms descending from everywhere to break it up. Todd pulls her quickly around it and toward the rear offices, when their path is blocked by a red-faced man who has fallen out of the fray. Todd grabs his collar with one hand, shoves him back in, and continues half-dragging Téa down the hall... though she's not resisting. He deposits her in the first office with an open door, closes and locks it, and turns to her, his long cashmere coat swirling around his legs.

"We're gonna have a discussion," he bellows.

She rolls her eyes at his pointlessly bullying tactics, shakes back her clothes, smooths down her hair, is about to chew him out when she's notices something significant perched on the paper-strewn desk.

She barks out a laugh. "You know whose office this is, right?"

He looks at her blankly.

"You should! You've been here often enough." She nods pointedly at a framed photograph.

He follows her eyes to the desk… and to the smiling face of Nora Gannon. He groans, mouth twisting with disgust. "Figures," he sneers. "Commissioner Bo fucking Buchanan." He throws up his arms, turns... and freezes. When he turns back to her a moment later, he's a man transformed.

"Huh," grunts, a devilish light flashing in his eyes. He knocks his head back and slowly scans her body, his hand moving to his belt. "Up for it?" he says.

She's stunned by the absurdity of the joke… but quickly sees that he's serious. She's getting used to his  _proclivities_ , but this? Instinctive outrage flares in her —  _she has a reputation to maintain in this town, dammit_  — and she's about to stride past him, fling open the door…

But he's in her way, stance wide and powerful. He's stroking his belt buckle and his eyes on her are so openly lewd that she feels a blush rise. Instead of storming out, she finds herself weighing consequences, doing a few quick calculations… and as she sets her briefcase down and slowly backs up until her thighs touch the heavy desk, she swears she can hear her heart pounding.

"A  _fuck you_  to Bo?" she says.

His lips curl into an evil smile. "You bet your ass."

She suppresses an uncharacteristic giggle and nervously bites her lip hard enough to feel pain. She needs the pain to bring her to her senses… because she's sliding her skirt up, sitting back on Bo's desk, eyes locked on her husband…

"Come on, then," she says, half daring him.

Todd looks downright wicked as he crosses to her, takes her knees in his hands, separates them and steps between her thighs. Fingers trembling, she quickly undoes his belt, unbuttons his trousers. She feels his breath coming fast and hot as he slides his hands up her nylon-covered thighs… but it catches when he encounters bare skin. He drops his eyes, pushes her skirt higher to reveal stockings, held in place by black silk garters…

"Wow." He seems mesmerized as his hands move higher… and higher still under her skirt until his fingers graze her pussy. "No underwear…," he breathes...

"For those special moments," she shiver-laughs, so high with anticipation and the insanity of this that she might be on the verge of passing out…

"This better be for me, Delgado." There's no jealousy in his tone, no suspicion, nothing she would have expected. Instead it's pure, unadulterated… entitlement.

"Who else would it be for," she's says, inflamed, done with the banter now. She reaches inside his boxer-briefs and pulls him out, rock hard and ready. She's ready, too, has been since she first heard his voice behind her at the reception desk.

"Bo left for lunch about five minutes ago," she says, logical mind coming online, even as she spreads her thighs wide, tilts her hips and rubs him against her opening. "He said something about a Mexican food truck by the courthouse. It's cold out, so we don't have much time."

"Won't need it," he groans, squeezing his eyes shut as she guides him inside. He shudders, collapses a bit, braces his hand on the desk and begins to move, laughing lightly...

"Shit. Fuck, I can't believe we're doing this."

"Doing what?" she gasps at the incredible pleasure of having him inside her, of being able to  _see_  him...

"Not a damn thing," he growls, grabs her hips and plunges deep. She grits her teeth, sucks in air, clings to his shoulders, gets her legs around him and hangs on. He's not gentle, doesn't check in before starting a pounding rhythm that shakes the desk. She stifles cries and whimpers as papers flutter to the floor, and over wet, slapping sounds and Todd's grunts of effort, she hears things clattering, falling behind her. After a particularly enthusiastic thrust, a thick file slides off the desk and lands by his shoes with a thud…

He huffs a laugh at that, but stops abruptly — stops  _everything_  — curses loudly, and Téa turns her head in time to see him grab Nora's picture and slam it face-down on the desk.

"Fuckin' bitch," he mutters, sets off again, and then they're both laughing, shivery sounds, heads pressed together, pelvises rocking, meeting each other thrust for thrust. She's not used to being fucked, gently or otherwise, and it's a challenge to keep up with him… but she likes that he expects her to, that he assumes she can take it… and from the strangely fierce way he's watching her, maybe even daring her to go him one better…

She accepts the dare and grinds down on him, strangling his cock with her internal muscles, and clamps her mouth onto his throat, sucking until he howls and shudders, slams his palm onto the desk… and all but stops again.

"Fuck," he breathes, raw and ragged. He's taut as a bowstring, and she tastes sweat, the tang of aftershave. His pulse is throbbing beneath her tongue… and she feels like she's holding him in the palm of her hand…

"So close," he whispers, as though it's a confession not meant for her ears. It's thrilling, makes her pussy clench, and she rocks, finds an angle that lays down fire inside her, sets a slow pace… and he joins her, moaning softly now…

She releases his throat, moves to his mouth and he parts his lips with a sigh, kisses her deeply, cradling the nape of her neck... but he suddenly breaks the kiss, whispers  _Téa_ , and presses his lips to her forehead. Her heart constricts in her chest. She's moved, amazed by how tender he can be, how easy they are together… how deeply satisfying it is to be with him...

He begins rocking inside her again, but so languidly she imagines he's hoping, no  _defying_  Bo to return and catch them, wanting a confrontation.… but she gradually realizes that he's huffing, straining… and it's not all sexual. She senses a change in him, a growing upset and leans back, follows his eyes as they dart around the room, landing on scattered mug shots pinned to the bulletin board and crime scenes photos they have no business seeing. His teeth are grinding, breath coming hard…

"Hey," she whispers, stroking his cheek, knowing he's caught in memories. "Come back." And he does, lost eyes locking into hers before closing heavily, and he bends, buries his face in the curve of her neck until whatever he's feeling fades…

At the first knock on the door, they both gasp  _shit_ , duck their heads and laugh breathlessly. They ignore the second knock, the rattling of the doorknob and the call of  _Commissioner_ … caring only that the lock holds as they cling to each other with renewed haste, find and devour each other's mouths, move together faster and harder, her heels pressing into his ass, fingers tangled in his silky hair. She bears down, tilts her pelvis, finds that angle that makes her shiver and moan  _así así_  as he glides and thrusts… and when she cries out, her body going rigid with the unexpected intensity of her orgasm, his hand slides over her mouth, silencing her…

That action does something to him. He makes a rough, strangled sound, his other hand clamps onto her hip like a vise, immobilizing her... and after a few erratic jerks, he follows her, ramming deep and staying deep, shuddering violently as he comes, making no sound at all…

Voices in the hall bring them both around. They freeze, wait for a knock that doesn't come, listen as the voices fade…

"Shit, we better get outta here," Todd snickers like a guilty teenager. He quickly withdraws from her, still mostly hard, steps back and tucks himself away. He's not awkward or embarrassed like he was at Rodi's… instead, he seems energized, present. He takes her hand and helps her down from the desk, makes sure she's steady on her high heels before letting her go. As she adjusts her clothing, he stoops, picks up the thick file from the floor, drops it on the desk… tilts his head for a closer look…

"No, Todd," she scolds, meaning it. "That's unethical."

"For  _you_ , maybe—,"

"—No. We've done enough." She squeezes his arm and gives him an affectionate push toward the door. "You go first, I'll straighten up."

He stops and turns on his heel, a scorchingly cocky grin on his face.

"You know, I have a long list of enemies. A lot of them even have offices…,"

She gapes at him, bites her lip, overcome with joy, fresh arousal, hope… but she's also sore and dangerously close to loving him. "Go!"… is all she's able to say.

He grabs the doorknob, but turns back again, this time with a bit less swagger.

"By the way," he says. "You're on something, right? You know… protection?"

"I am," she says. "No worries." There's no need to tell him she's been on the pill since that day in his office… the first time  _nothing happened_ … just in case something did…

He nods, flashes her a smile, unlocks and pulls open the door, doesn't even check the hall before striding out like he owns the place. She closes and re-locks it behind him, ignores the buzz and wetness between her legs as she quickly gathers up the fallen papers. She resists scanning them herself as she replaces them on the desk and tidies up the mess they made.

Satisfied, she adjusts her clothes again, making sure she's presentable, checks around one last time, turns to go… but an evil little impulse makes her reach into her coat pocket for her business card, tuck it under Bo's empty coffee mug…

And she leaves Nora Gannon's picture face down on the desk, exactly where it lay.

**_To be continued..._ **


	6. Chapter 6

Late Friday afternoon at the penthouse, and Todd is sprawled on the couch in sweats and a t-shirt, absently flipping through the TV channels with the remote. He left work early to drop Starr off at Viki's for the weekend, knew Delgado would be out trying to scare up clients, so he decided to come back and get comfortable, maybe enjoy some peace and quiet for a change. But the truth is, he's miserable. He misses his kid.

And he misses Téa.

She's been back for about a month, came home the night they had sex in Bo's office. They didn't mention what happened, retired to their separate bedrooms in awkward silence… yet they've been busy as bunnies ever since. Quick shags in a few executive offices at The Banner, judge's chambers at the courthouse, all over Buchanan Enterprises — Delgado wouldn't let him break into Asa's office, so he had to settle for the unlocked no-name one down the hall — even in St. James Church. That was the hardest one to talk her into, and the least satisfying. Delgado had insisted on getting as far away from God as possible — guilt sticks, it seems, even if faith wavers — so they ended up in a basement utility closet… and still she kept griping, "I'm going to Hell for this," as he thrust inside her. That was distracting enough, but an AA-type meeting was going on in the community room next door, and Todd was trying to tune in, see if he could recognize any of the muffled voices, maybe grab a salacious tidbit for his paper…

Yeah, they've been doing it all over town. But they've never done it here. Not at the penthouse — that's one of his rules. Too complicated, too much like a real marriage. As long as their  _activities_ , and any discussion of them, stay outside these walls, he can pretend that nothing's happening, that it's not really  _them_  so it doesn't really count…

He stretches luxuriantly on the couch, aware again of the stupid smile that's been plaguing his face for days… but what the hell. He's taken to thinking of himself as a sleek tomcat prowling the streets of Llanview, marking his territory, obliterating the feeble spray of lesser cats who've gone before. He knows it's petty, but it's satisfying, and adds an extra layer of smug to his overall swagger…

All thanks to Delgado.

Honestly, he's amazed she's going along with it. While she's clearly enjoying herself, he knows she's basically indulging him and isn't getting off on their little game the way he is. Maybe she figures this harmless  _fuck you_  to his enemies will keep him out of real trouble… and she  _is_  reining in his baser impulses, keeping the two of them just this side of felony charges. Personally, he's finding he wouldn't at all mind getting caught  _in flagrante_ , and laughs like hell when he pictures the scandalized faces… but Delgado would be mortified. There's a time he wouldn't have cared — small price to pay — but now, well… things have changed…

He checks his watch, punches the cushion beneath his head to fluff it up, settles back and crosses his arms hard over his chest. She should be back by now. He presses a button on the remote, raises the volume on some news report he couldn't care less about. Truth is, he hopes she never gets any clients. He won't sabotage her — not  _too_  much — but he likes having her available to him when the noon bell chimes. That's another one of his rules — lunch hours only. More people around, higher stakes… but really, he needs the time limit. Fast and furious, no chance to linger, or talk… or get emotional…

Not that she would. She's surprisingly detached — she clings to him, comes like a volcano during... but afterward, she just smooths her hair and adjusts her clothes, asks if he'll be home later, can he bring Chinese…

It's good. It gives him space… because he's finding that his hunger for her is bottomless. He's sure that'll fade once he gets bored with their game, but for now, he spends his days at The Sun concocting scenarios for them while he should be working, and he'll call her, heart racing: "Up for a little nothing?"

Sometimes she'll pause, then her throaty voice will answer with a single question that makes him instantly hard: "Where?"

Other times she's all business and he knows by her polite refusal that someone's around. He's disappointed, but hoards his arousal and anticipation, guards them like a high until he can have her again…

It's a new normal, and it's working. Just as long as they don't do it  _here_ …

He hears her key in the lock and his stomach lurches, but he doesn't move as she noisily lets herself in, drops her things and collapses back against the door with a groan.

"Hard day at the office, Gumdrop?" he quips without turning.

He feels her glare burn through the top of his head. "Being associated with you is  _poison_ ," she snaps. "No one in this town will hire me!"

He listens, tracks her movements as she pushes off from the door, enters the living room, throws her coat on the desk chair… and now she's standing over him in her powder blue skirt-suit, lightly smacking his legs until he pulls his knees up and makes room for her on the couch. She drops down wearily, blocking his view of the TV.

"I don't know why you're after more clients, Delgado," he says, craning his neck around to see another report he doesn't care about. "I have plenty for you to do."

She rubs her temples, gives him the side eye. "I don't want your charity or your busywork, Todd. I need to build up my practice — oh, damn these stupid shoes," she hisses, bends, pulls her heels off one by one and flexes her feet. "I swear, the men who design these things are sadists."

He formulates and discards a few wise-ass comments and scans her. She seems tense, sore, miserable, and not all of it will be remedied by her usual glass of wine. He feels... weird, tunes in to himself and realizes he's having an exceedingly rare, unselfish impulse. And what's even more rare — he decides to follow it. He sits up, turns off the TV and tosses the remote on the coffee table.

"Gimme," he says, patting his thighs.

She dips her chin, looks at him doubtfully. "What are you going to do, Todd…?"

"Nothing!" He's actually trying to be nice for once and resents her suspicion. He reaches down, grabs her ankles and unceremoniously drags her feet onto his lap. When he presses his thumbs into her arches to give her a taste, her whole body bucks, freezes, then sinks bonelessly into the cushions.

"Oh, my God," she gasps.

"Right?" he says. "I'm good at this. Just relax, Delgado."

She watches him a moment more, eyes narrowed, but he ignores her and sets about massaging her feet, giving her his best moves… and when she groans helplessly, settles back and lets him have his way with her, it feels like an almost erotic victory.

He works slowly, methodically, testing the amount of pressure she can bear… which is considerable. Her feet are small in his large hands, beautifully shaped, perfectly proportioned, toes tipped with red polish beneath gauzy stockings…

Apropos of nothing she murmurs, "Is Starr settled in at Viki's?"

He grunts, doesn't want to think about it.

"A whole weekend, Todd. Are you really okay with that?"

He's not. His heart hurts. Viki had suggested that maybe he and Téa needed some alone time. He doesn't know why she would think such a dumb thing — maybe she saw them sneaking out of Kevin's office at The Banner last week? — and he still doesn't know why he agreed to it…

Téa whimpers and wriggles her feet. He looks down, realizes he'd gotten lost in thought, had slacked off. He resumes massaging with long strokes, focused pressure to loosen tightness… and she's making sounds he's never heard before. They're always quiet during their furtive public encounters — he's on intimate terms with the way her muffled cries feel beneath his hand — but now her open groans of pleasure are affecting him deeply. He carefully moves her feet away from his crotch so she won't notice…

He pauses, flexes his fingers. Her stockings are causing weird friction on his palms. He flashes on an image — Delgado reclining on Bo's desk... sheer, thigh-high stockings held in place by thin strips of black satin trailing up over her creamy skin, vanishing beneath her skirt…

He wonders if she's wearing them now, balls tightening at the thought…

No.  _Not here_. Not at the penthouse.

She whimpers again, this time because he pressed much too hard. He eases off, rubs more gently… grows obsessed with what she's got on under her skirt…

He pinches a bit of stocking between his thumb and forefinger. "Take these off," he says, voice rough and revealing.

She drags drugged eyes to him, locks in, scrutinizes everything about him inside and out… and arrives at the correct conclusion.

"Take them off me," she purrs.

"It's not like that, Delgado," he lies, flustered… and angry that he's flustered. "This nylon shit or whatever, I hate it. Gimme skin."

She tilts her head, quirks a brow. "Am I to assume that this means nothing is about to happen?"

"For real nothing. Not here. You know that."

She's never questioned this unspoken rule, or any of them, for that matter… as if she knows how fragile their game really is…

"Okay, fine," she says with a bit of a pout. "But I don't feel like getting up to take them off, and you have a better angle."

"Delgado…"

"What? Come on, Todd. It's no big deal."

He knows for a hard fact that's not true... but he gives it a try. He doesn't look as he reaches under her skirt, fumbles higher, finds satin and warm skin. His imagination goes crazy — he knows where this is headed, yanks his hands back and blows out a blast of air.

"No way. You do it, Delgado," he snarls. "Or this stops. No more foot rub. "

She rolls her eyes and laughs. "It's just  _underwear_ , Todd. You wear underwear, I've seen it."

"Not like yours. And not today."

"Really?" She edges her heel playfully toward his crotch but he grabs her big toe, stopping her.

"Yeah, you can just cut that out now," he warns.

"Fine, Todd," she says. "I give up. I'll take them off myself." She abruptly reaches down, yanks up her skirt… and there — sheer thigh-high stockings, black satin straps trailing up over creamy skin, disappearing from view...

He stares, swallows.

She's stopped moving. He looks up to find her watching him with eyes like hot coffee, and he knows it's too late to play it off...

"So, when did you start… all this, anyway," he says, gaze returning to her thighs, to the enticing patch of naked flesh between the stockings and the hem of her powder blue skirt…

"After that night at Rodi's," she says softly. "Easier access… just in case. But I've worn these before… you seem surprised."

He drags his eyes to her face again — she's blushing, biting her lip.

"There's not really a chance to… you know, see anything. We're always so… clothed," he says, realizing only now that he's never laid eyes on a single intimate part of her body. Feeling mildly drunk, he reaches out, hesitantly strokes his forefinger along the top edge of her stocking, touching skin...

"This is for me," he says. It's not a question.

Her breath is coming fast. She's watching him from under her brow with that look that turns his blood to fire. He takes the hem of her skirt between his fingers, tells himself as he raises it higher than he's just curious, that he can stop anytime…

The sun is setting, bathing the room in rosy, late-winter light… but the air inside the penthouse is suddenly sweltering. Téa lifts her hips as he pushes the skirt higher still… and he freezes at the sight of dark curls surrounded by smooth, creamy skin... a black satin and lace garter belt around her hips, black satin straps trailing down her thighs, clipped into sheer stockings below. A framed work of art. A powerful invitation.

"Jesus," he breathes, fully erect, perspiration forming. He doesn't know where this reaction is coming from, doesn't care… and rules be damned. He slides his hands under her thighs, pushes them up, spreads them until her knees are bent and she's wide open to him. He's half crazed, should slow down, explore her… but he has to get his mouth on her, needs her writhing, clawing his hair. He's on her in an instant, tongue plunging deep into her soft, wet folds… and god, how did he live so long without this — his hands cupping her perfect round ass... her noisy, full-throated cries... his fingers pushing inside her now, thrusting, feeling her clutch him as he sucks her swollen clit…

And she's moaning in Spanish, low music that floats and drives him on and on… and now she's coming, grabbing his head, bucking against his mouth, thighs closing on his cheeks, locking him in her heat and scent as the waves rise and fall… and rise again, higher and higher because he's not quite done with her, needs to make her come again… and finally she arches, shudders violently...

Moments later she slackens, legs dropping open, and looks down at him with feral, drunken eyes... triggering him. He surges up and over her, has to get inside her as she mewls, shoves his sweats down, grabs his cock in that frenzied way of hers, angles her hips, starts guiding him home… but fuck,  _fuck_  no…

"Not here," he rasps, aching, on fire, barely human. "Jerk me."

She makes a choked sound, maybe disappointment, doesn't matter. She's ruthless with him then, pumping hard, tugging his balls with her other hand and  _fuck_ … he rams into her grip, rips her blouse open, ignores the flying buttons. He's fucked her in every corner of this town, but he's never even seen her tits. He shoves her bra up, dives, sucks her nipples as she cries out, bucks up, works him faster, getting him close… and he tears his mouth away from her, has the presence of mind to notice that her bunched up skirt is in his line of fire—

"Your—," he can't find words, juts his chin at the fabric…

"Come on my chest," she gasps. It's a command, and it's hot. So hot. He frantically shoves away anything that's not skin as she presses his tip to her stomach, one hand a blur on his cock, the other rubbing his tight balls… and within seconds his body goes rigid, and with a hoarse shout he's coming, pulsing white and hot over her breasts…

When the shuddering stops, he's stunned, throbbing, can't form a thought. She lets him go, but instead of collapsing on top of her like his body demands, he rocks back on shaky knees, braces an arm on the back of the couch and fights to catch his breath. He isn't done… he could go again. He could go forever, but he pulls his sweats up, covering his still-hard cock, and focuses on the sated wreckage of Téa Delgado spread beneath him in the warm glow of the setting sun...

A warm glow is spreading through him, too, but he blinks it away, shoves to his feet, manages to stay upright despite wobbly legs. "Don't move," he tells her, and laughs at a vague pang of anxiety. "Huh. Weird. Why do I feel like your parents are about to walk in?"

She smiles lazily, eyes shining and seductive… but she suddenly lowers them, seems to shrink almost shyly into herself…

"Stay put," he says and turns away before the shyness gets hold of him, too. He staggers down the hall and into the guest bathroom, cleans himself off. Lightheaded, verging on giddy, he grabs a clean washcloth, wets it under hot water...

When he returns, he pauses and stands over her, taking in the languid, radiant sight of her. Her shyness has vanished and her thighs are slightly parted, clothing awry, spurts of his white cream trailing over her soft caramel skin…

Marked. His.

Their eyes lock as he seats himself on the coffee table. He aches to kiss her… to gather her into his arms and carry her to his bed… but that's absurd. So he pulls a deep breath instead and surveys her with a mock scowl.

"Ugh, guys are so messy," he mutters, lifts her hand and gently cleans her graceful fingers with the warm, wet washcloth. He wipes her stomach, carefully removes the tiny fleck of white that landed on the black garter belt, refolds the washcloth and cleans her small, rounded breasts. He doesn't resist the urge to lean down, lick her nipple. He tastes the echo of himself as it hardens beneath his tongue…

When he sits back, Téa's eyes are glued to him, mesmerized, her lips wet and parted. His body feels electrified, his emotions are confused and raging as he resumes cleaning her. He tries to detach, but she reaches up and caresses his face, strokes his goatee, his mouth. She's so tranquil, so beautiful… too beautiful… so completely his…

 _Fuck_. He knew it would be stupid to do anything at the penthouse. Now, whenever she looks at this couch, she'll remember, and she'll  _want_ …

Or maybe that's just him.

He slows his movements, then stops altogether, swallows hard and stiffly refolds the washcloth to a clean side, lays his palm on it — it's too chilly now. He climbs wordlessly to his feet and returns to the bathroom, runs the water until it's hot enough, holds the washcloth under the flow… and catches sight of himself in the mirror.

Open, defenseless. Terrified. He licks his lips and tastes her, feels her. She's everywhere, inside and out, and his heart is racing, aching…

This wasn't supposed to happen.

_Nothing can happen… nothing will happen…_

He snaps to, realizes he's been standing motionless, that the water is uncomfortably hot on his fingers, that the washcloth is saturated. He drops it into the bowl, shuts off the faucet and braces his arms on the sink, studying this strange new face looking back at him…

Gradually he becomes aware of Téa in the open doorway, watching him. His gaze slides across the tile floor to her stocking feet, but no higher.

"You need to…?" he mutters.

"No. I just...," she begins softly, takes a trembling breath. "Todd, I—,"

"—Whatever," he snaps, cutting off any words he may not be prepared to hear, or to deal with… which is pretty much all of them. He straightens up, jams his damp hands into his pockets, sidles past her and out the door… not looking at her, not touching her. After a few long strides down the hall, he comes to an abrupt halt and stares unseeing at the wall.

"Sorry," he says quietly. He's not quite sure what he's sorry for, just that he is. Maybe it's for being so distant now, maybe it's for starting this whole thing in the first place — this game that no longer feels like a game. Maybe he has nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all. Whatever. He rolls his shoulders and shakes it off, forces himself to continue down the hall. He quickly crosses the living room — taking special care not to look at the couch — and climbs the circular stairs… alone.

**_To be continued…_ **


	7. Chapter 7

Téa grunts as she tries to twist the lid off the jar of peanut butter, grimaces, puts her shoulder into it, but it won't budge. There's precious little else in the penthouse, so it's this or nothing. If Todd were here in the kitchen with her instead of upstairs brooding, he might surprise her again like he had that morning — she'd been struggling with a jelly jar as they'd been engaged in yet another pointless debate and, instead of watching her with a smirk and walking away like he usually would, he'd unceremoniously taken the jar from her, opened it and handed it back to her without missing a beat… like an actual human might do… like a  _husband_  might do…

But he's not here. He ran away.

She bangs the lid against the edge of the counter, harder than necessary, feels a bit evil as she imagines microscopic bits of glass mixing with the peanut butter he'll spread on his toast in the morning…

_Of course_  he ran away. What happened on that couch earlier was way too intimate. Downright forbidden. She'd known the penthouse was off-limits — he'd made that abundantly and repeatedly clear, leaping away like a scorched cat whenever she got too close. But tonight was  _not her fault_. She remembers his hungry eyes, hungrier mouth, how well he's learned to read her over the past month… yet what truly stuns her is how thoughtful he'd been afterward, how tenderly he'd cleaned her… not to get rid of evidence… but as a simple act of caregiving…

And it's that memory that weakens her knees, makes her wet and fiery all over again…

She'd worn underwear that day. Of course she had. She wasn't about to go traipsing bare-assed around Llanview for no good reason. But a strange impulse had seized her as she'd pulled into the parking garage downstairs — she was irritated with him for stalling her career, knew they'd be alone, and it seemed like a satisfying sort of power play to remove her underwear… to secretly prepare herself for him as she has so many times in the past month — wet, aching, anticipating the moment he'd push himself inside her, hold her gaze a moment too long with those light, vulnerable eyes of his, giving it all away before shutting himself down, ducking his head and fucking her in earnest.

She's seen what he's feeling. She's feeling it, too — she's just been much better at hiding it.

Until tonight.

She hadn't intended any of it, had in fact, meant only to privately enjoy her little secret… but it got out, he went someplace he had no intention of going. And now everything may be ruined…

She pulls a shuddery breath, releases it slowly, but the tightness in her chest is stubborn. She notices that her blouse is hanging open, takes a corner, wraps it around the lid, twists. Nothing. She slams the jar down on the counter, scowls, fixes her eyes on the ceiling and the dull rhythmic thump of bare feet pacing on the floor above her. It's not even six o'clock, but there's no way he'll come back down tonight — not as long as she's here. Not for food, not for TV. Not for  _nothing_.

Fine, let him starve. Let him brood, blame her, hate her, end their game and find a hundred ways to shut her out again. She's hungry, and if she can't open this goddamned jar by herself, she'll just have to order take out…

#

Consider it rapprochement. A papering over, a reset. Nothing to see here, moving on.

"Todd!" Téa calls from the bottom of the stairs. She takes a step up… and another when he doesn't answer. "I'm ordering Chinese. Want anything?" He's partial to Sweet and Sour Chicken, but she shouldn't assume anything tonight…

" _Todd!_ " she calls again, peering up, climbing a few more steps. Still nothing. His absolute silence feels deliberate, personal… like a snub, like undeserved punishment. It pisses her off.

"Hey… Todd, where are you?" She reaches the top of the stairs and moves into the hallway, notices that his bedroom door is open.

"What is this, the cold shoulder?" she shouts, angrier, louder as she approaches the door. "Can't you just  _grow up_  for once and—,"

She stops dead at the sound of his shower running. She shakes her head, heaves a breath, scolds herself for jumping to conclusions, for being so damn sensitive, and turns back toward the stairs…

"What the hell are you yelling about, Delgado!" His voice is distant, nearly drowned out by the white noise of water.

"Nothing. Never mind," she calls over her shoulder.

" _What?_ "

She wheels around, moves toward his door. "I said,  _nothing_!"

"What?" His voice is muffled but clearly alarmed. "What's wrong? Is it Shorty?"

She hinges at the waist, leans her head through the door, not wanting to enter uninvited. "No! No, emergency," she shouts. "It's  _nothing_. I'm just…," she feels foolish now, but she's come this far…

"I'm just ordering Chinese," she calls, enunciating each syllable. "Do you want anything?"

There's no response, and she waits, head cocked, imagining him trying to work out what she said, smiling to herself as the seconds pass and she knows he's failing…

_"I can't hear a fucking thing you're saying, Delgado!"_  he bellows.  _"Either come in or go away!"_

She laughs and moves into his bedroom. She's never had reason to be in here before, peeked in once… maybe twice, just out of curiosity. The heavy drapes are drawn but the bathroom door is open, spilling a dim glow over his big bed. Steam, scent and heat are wafting from where he is, the sensuality of it enveloping her the way he does when he grabs her hips, rocks inside her…

"Hey, you there?" His shower-muffled voice cuts through her daze. She doesn't answer right away, can't seem to form sounds… then she hears him splashing, muttering angrily to himself. She picks out the word  _Chinese_ , remembers the point of all this, steps over his discarded t-shirt and sweatpants, and boldly sticks her head through the bathroom door. She keeps her eyes on the floor — dark, expensive-looking, probably Italian marble — and says in her normal voice:

"I'm ordering take out."

She hears a hiss, the slap of what could be a big, startled hand hitting tile…

"Fuckin'  _hell_ , Delgado!"

She smiles hugely, lets him hear it. "Want anything?"

A harsh breath, a harsher voice. "Very funny. You scared the… look, when I said come in, I didn't mean  _all the way_  in."

"I'm not. I'm in the doorway."

"Well…," he trails off into a long pause, no sound but running water. "Just wait there."

_Yes sir_ , she thinks, leans against the door jamb, lets her eyes wander. She resists spying on his shower like a voyeur, can't see much in the dimness and the cloud of steam anyway... but a dark shape catches her eye. It gradually resolves, clarifies… until she realizes she's looking at his reflection in the mirror. No details, but she can make out that he's motionless, leaning forward, arms braced against the far wall of shower stall the size of a small room…

She straightens up, uneasy. "You okay?"

"Thinking," he says, voice so rich and low, reverberating… and it occurs to her that the subject may have changed…

She can make out more of his reflection now — broad shoulders she loves to cling to… tense, muscular arms… the tight curve of his ass… and she can feel it in her hands, rocking, flexing as he fucks her…

"Thinking about… what you want?" She half-hopes he can't hear her… or the new huskiness in her own voice.

He doesn't answer, but his reflection pushes off from the wall and stands tall, raises its arms and rakes its fingers through sodden hair, back arching… so natural, so unselfconscious that she looks away…

"This isn't usually such a tough decision for you, Todd," she says softly, implying nothing and everything. "You usually know exactly what you want."

He sighs heavily, drops his arms to his sides with twin wet slaps… head pitching forward like a man defeated.

"Close the door, Delgado," he says. "You're letting in a draft."

She hesitates — it's possible she's being dismissed. "Ummm… you want me in or out?"

He's silent for so long she wishes she could grab the question back.

"In," he says gruffly.

She steps in, closes the door behind her, and looks directly at him for the first time — a large, very masculine figure half-shrouded in steam. His eyes are fixed on her with an intensity that takes her breath away.

"Up for a little nothing, Delgado?" he says.

#

Téa can barely see as she slips the bra straps from her shoulders. She's simultaneously trying not to think about what all this humidity is doing to her hair, and clutching her bra to her chest like a shield. She's seized by self-consciousness, and not just because he's never seen her naked before… or she him. It's because this is  _his_  place, his private sanctuary... and she suddenly feels like an intruder. She could gather her things, excuse herself… but he  _did_  invite her…

She pulls a deep breath and lets her bra fall to the floor, joining her jacket, skirt and blouse. All that's left is the garter belt and stockings. She lifts a foot onto the commode and undoes the clasp, feels the heat of his gaze on her as she slowly rolls one stocking down her long leg… then the other…

She glances up and finds that he's watching her with an unnerving, predatory heat. She's caught glimpses of it occasionally — when he advances on her in a darkened room… when he grips her wrist a bit too hard… or covers her mouth to muffle her orgasm — but it doesn't frighten her. She knows his history of sexual violence, of course, and though he's sometimes rough with her, it seems motivated by sheer enthusiasm… and is, more often than not,  _mutual_...

Besides which, when they meet for their trysts he's usually wearing one of his baggy designer suits, and he's hardly an imposing figure as they fumble and rut on desks, in office chairs, utility closets…

But somehow, now, she feels a low stirring of… apprehension. Of vulnerability. The shower stall is wet, cavernous, lined with stone and dark tile. Except for the shower heads mounted at various heights on every wall, the atmosphere reminds her of a jungle lair… and he's poised at the mouth of it, shrouded in steam, chin lowered, eyes glistening and feral in the dim light, water sliding over his skin and dripping like jewels from his long hair…

"Take that off," he says, eyeing her garter belt, her last remaining bit of clothing. And it's all so strange,  _he's_  so strange, that she takes an involuntary step back… and notices that beneath the apprehension is something else — that her body is buzzing with excitement… and a primal, ancient, very un-politically correct desire to tease him, to dare him, to be taken by him…

It's delicious, intoxicating… and she looks into his eyes, slides her fingers over the silky fabric of her garter belt, moves her hips to a rhythm rising from deep inside…

"Take it off, Delgado," he says, lower now, insistent…

Soaking wet, heart thrumming, she bites her lip, slowly slides the garter belt down her hips, her thighs, lets it slip to the floor…

He watches its progress, drags his eyes back to hers... but her eyes are on his hand as it languidly touches his stiffening cock. She seems to be sinking into a dream… Todd would never do that in front of her, so openly, so shamelessly. Yet he's doing it now… in response to her presence here. Her pussy clenches with a very familiar ache, but she holds back, basking in the moment, the wait… the  _want_ …

"God, you're gorgeous," she says like warm honey…

A narrowing of his eyes, a tightening of his jaw, a flash of old, avoidant Todd.

"Shut up, Delgado. You're wasting water," he mutters… but he stays where he is, chest rising, falling more rapidly… hand closing around his shaft, stroking slowly…

They simply watch each other, tension building, neither making a move… and she wonders what he does here, in his sanctuary. Is this how he touches himself? Does he tease, take it slow, bring himself to the edge, make himself wait? Or maybe it's hard, fast, functional. Even through the heat and humidity, she feels sweat rise on her skin as she imagines his orgasm — his shout echoing off these walls, white cream arcing, sliding down the dark tile as it slid over her breasts. And what does he think about… does he ever think of her…?

She's frantically aroused by the thoughts, the images they conjure, wants him so badly she's half faint with it… and yet…

And yet. This somehow seems much too easy…

She makes a mighty effort to calm herself, wary now, remembering the early months of their marriage, all the rejection, the constant approach/avoidance, how resistant he's been to anything happening in the penthouse, how he ran away from her earlier…

Cruel experience tells her that this could be a perverse Toddian set up, an attempt to restore order to his world. This could be revenge.

But he's reaching out a large hand to her, eyes guarded, but hungry. She hesitantly slips her hand into his, steps over the low stone threshold… and isn't at all surprised when he suddenly drops her hand like it's bitten him and lurches away.

"Wow, okay," she says, expecting it, but bitterly disappointed just the same. "Well played."

But he's not enjoying his victory. He's turning his body away from her, jaw clenched, eyes darting around like he's looking for a place to hide.

"Whatever," he grumbles. "Look… it's all yours. Take your time… or whatever."

It hits her then that this isn't a set-up — he's panic-stricken. This particular intimacy is a step too far, one he obviously thought he could handle…

He starts to bolt past her and out of the shower — running, always running — but she lays a quick, gentle hand on his arm.

"Please don't," she says, hoping to reassure him that she's a benign presence, a temporary visitor to his sanctuary, nothing to be afraid of. "I didn't mean to interrupt. What were you doing before I came in?"

He blinks through the steam, seems lost. "About to wash my hair," he mutters.

"Go ahead. I'll wash mine, too," she says. There's no trace in him of the feral occupant of this jungle lair. In fact, his eyes have yet to venture below her neck. She gives him a harmless smile. "Nothing has to happen, Todd. For real nothing. Okay?"

He nods vaguely, stares into space for a moment before turning and pumping some gel into his palm from the dispenser on the wall. He briskly runs his hands over his head, rubbing lather into his scalp like she's not even there.

_Fine_ , she sighs to herself, deliberately dousing the still-raging fires inside.  _Just two roomies sharing a shower_ …

He steps aside, giving her access to the spray, avoids looking at her as she wets her hair, her body… but she's watching him and notices that his penis has lost little of its vigor. He turns a knob on another shower head, moves into the fresh stream that sputters to life, throws his head back and rakes his fingers through his hair. As water carries white suds down the contours of his long, lean body, he closes his eyes, moaning softly as though lost in sensation…

And she's moved by how vulnerable he is in this moment, how effortlessly sensual. How perfect.

He finishes rinsing, lowers his chin, wipes water from his face with a deft stroke of his big hand… and seems to see something in her face that makes his cock leap.

He scowls, starts to wheel away, hesitates… then reaches for the dispenser on the wall and roughly pumps sandalwood-scented body wash onto his palm. It works on her like an erotic trigger, so many times has the heat of his arousal activated this very scent. It's the smell of his hair, his skin and perspiration… the smell of frantic noontime sex in illicit places…

She reaches past him, arm grazing his slick chest, and pumps gel into her own palm. He rubs his hands together like a challenge, releasing more scent as she steps back, breathes deeply and does the same. Steam from the two shower heads has thickened to the point she can barely see him — it's rising around them like smoke on a battlefield as they face off, eyes locked… each seeming to evaluate the other, the situation… just how far they're willing to take this…

And how much damage they could do…

**_To be continued…_ **


	8. Chapter 8

Todd doesn't want Téa here, yet here she is. He doesn't want to be gliding his hands over the soft curves of her naked body, yet he is. A lot of things have been happening that he doesn't want, and yet…

This was supposed to be… what was it supposed to be? What did he expect when he invited her in, when they started to touch each other? This is exactly what it's supposed to be, and there's not a damn thing he can do about it now.

He feels languid… hazy. It's all merging… liquid, heat, breath, skin… dark, woody scents… Téa's hums and purrs weaving through the hush of water as he touches her…

He honestly couldn't say where he ends and the world begins…

Her delicate hands are drifting, exploring, and he's allowing it. He's not used to being touched, was overly-stimulated at first, every brush of her fingers making his body spasm. It was humiliating, but her smile was sweet and he gradually settled… and now it's so soothing his eyes are closed and he's swaying… hand on the small of her back pulling her close, closer, right up against him now, chest to rounded breasts, his erection bending awkwardly, so he adjusts, sandwiches it between them, aiming skyward, feels her belly pressing gently and his blood heats at the memory of ejaculating on her skin…

She rests her head on his chest… trusting, yielding. He danced with her like this at Rodi's — the first time they held each other, the first time they… fucked. The word feels harsh and wrong, even in the silence of his mind, but he forces himself to use it, to keep things at a safe distance… especially now, when she's soft in his arms, available, surprisingly small… when her fingertips are trailing down the length of his spine and lower, making him shiver and arch… cupping his ass now, squeezing gently… and he thrusts up between their bodies, doesn't mean to, but what else can he do, lost as he is in a sensuous daze, her taste and scent still lingering in his mouth, on his lips, her cries vivid in his mind…

His hands are exploring her, too... slowly, lingering over every plane, contour and curve. She's so warm and pliant… so  _fuckable_.

And then she's turning him away from her to face the shower spray, molding herself to his back, breasts pressing, sliding against his skin as she reaches to the dispenser, squirts gel into her hand, rubs her palms together in front of him sensuously, provocatively. He knows what's coming, but when she wraps her hands around his cock and starts stroking, he groans, pitches forward, braces his fists against the tile wall and looks down, watches, mesmerized…

#

Téa loves the way Todd is giving himself over to her, the sweat rising on his skin, his gentle, helpless rocking, the way his body is trapped between hers and her gel-slick hands. From her position behind him, she can't see what her hands are doing, but she feels every inch of him, every vein and shiver as she strokes his shaft, sweeps her thumb over his tip and back again. She glides her other hand along his hip, down the front of his tense thigh, reaches under to caress his balls, feeling them tighten, the heat building…

His raw, animal sounds are echoing off the tile as the steam swirls and water rains on their skin. He's thrusting into her grip now, and she longs to know how this feels for him… what it's like for him when he's moving inside her…

And she has a bizarre, erotic notion that this is her thick, heavy cock she's holding... and she wants to push it inside him, to fuck him the way he fucks her… to feel him pulse around her as she increases the speed, the depth, changes the angle until she finds one that makes him gasp and moan… to watch his face as intense pleasure swallows him whole…

The image shocks her, arouses her so deeply that she quickly rinses him off in the shower stream, grabs his hips, turns him toward her again and drops to her knees. As she draws him into her mouth, he shudders, takes her head in his hands…

She looks up into his shadowed face, sees his eyes gleaming. His head falls back, then forward again, his long, sodden hair swaying. His rhythmic groans fill the damp space, mingling with the splash of water and the soft, wet sounds of her sucking him. She slows down, way down, really feeling him... making him feel her. He doesn't thrust, just rests his hands in her hair and lets her lead… eyes black and fierce as he watches his cock slide slowly between her tight lips… in… out… in… out, respiration so shallow now, small sips of air, head dropping back, then forward again…  _oh, fuck, fuck_ , he breathes. His fist is clenching her hair now. He's so close, barely moving… but she can tell the force is gathering, deep and powerful, cock engorging as she caresses his perineum with her wet finger...

She backs off to tease him, knows he's at her mercy, that she's controlling him completely, maybe for the first time. When she slides her finger farther, finds his anus and gently circles, his body bucks and he thrusts into her mouth with a desperate cry… emboldening her to press her finger inside. He shatters then, and with a torn, primal shout, he comes, palm slapping tile, hips jerking wildly, and she stays with him, taking everything he gives her…

As his spasms fade, he withdraws from her mouth and turns away...

#

He's reeling, wrung out… isn't used to this many orgasms… but it's more than that. There's something dark… unwanted. A deep shame...

She's on her knees, looking up at him with smoldering eyes, an intimate smile on her red, swollen lips. It's a smile that says  _I know you, I see you_ …

She knows and sees far too much.

She looks so trusting and eager as he helps her to her feet… but when she leans up to kiss him, he jerks away. The hurt in her eyes is vivid, but he doesn't care. They've already crossed too many boundaries tonight. Still, her skin is flushed and glistening, water droplets cling to her long eyelashes... if he did kiss her here, he'd sink into that mouth and get lost. That's the problem — he gets lost in her, loses control, loses himself, loses his mind…

She doesn't. That's never happened to her… and he needs it to. He needs to make it happen. Still holding her hand, he guides her back against the far wall. She's so pliant and aroused... anticipating. He takes the hand shower from the wall mount next to her, turns it on, adjusts the temperature and intensity. He gets down on one knee, lifts her foot onto his thigh. She flinches, giggles, gradually relaxes as he directs the water first onto her perfect, red-tipped toes, then her ankle, calf… slowly making his way up the inside of her leg, trailing his fingertips up through the warm water as it slides down her skin. By the time he reaches her inner thigh, she's primed, braced against the wall, eyes squeezed tight, hands gripping his shoulders.

"Make noise," he says, and aims the stream directly into the folds of her pussy.

Her cry rings out as she shudders, legs straining wide. The sound cuts right through him. He intensifies the stream, moves it closer.

"Oh… oh  _fuck_ ," she gasps, grabs his head, body gathering into a tight ball of tension… almost as tense as his own body as he watches her head arch back, lower lip caught tight between her teeth… just a few more seconds… and  _there_ , she wails and shatters… hips juddering, thighs trembling…

That reaction was quick, but nothing he hasn't seen before.

He further intensifies the stream, moves it closer still… and within moments, she's writhing, hissing, head hitting the wall with a dull thud as she comes again, harder, nails digging painfully into his scalp…

"Todd," she laughs, a raw, breathless sound he understands to mean  _that's enough now_ …

But he's not done… and even though she's stiffening, trying to push him away, he keeps the stream steady, focused, relentless… grasps her thigh with his free hand so she'll stay open to him… and, as though she knows she has nowhere to go, she bears down, rides the water with a soft, keening sound... one he hasn't heard before...

It makes him look sharply into her face, through the dimness and the swirling steam. Her expression is strange… and it takes him a moment to realize he's seeing what he wanted to see — not pleasure… but defeat. His ugly, familiar sense of satisfaction is like a knife in his gut, and he throws the hand shower to the floor, hears it clack and skitter, the stream harmlessly pelting the wall now. Driven by a need he doesn't understand, he presses his mouth between her legs… kissing, gently soothing her fevered, sensitive flesh with his tongue, urging her to take what she needs, even if she needs to shove him away…

But she takes his head in her hands, holds him still and rocks her hips, using him until she stiffens and silently implodes, thighs trembling around his face…

They grapple for one another then, frantically, mindlessly… she's pulling him to his feet, he's gripping her ass, hoisting her up against the wall…

#

Téa is raw, confused, trembling with aftershocks, feeling the strength in his arms, the cool tile wall against her back as he lifts her. She instinctively wraps her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck and clings to him, desperate and needing, as he pushes inside her with a strange, broken cry. He takes off at a breakneck pace, huffing wet and hard into the crook of her neck…

She's dazed, but not so far gone that she doesn't realize this is a fucking  _shocking_  development. She's used to their wild, reckless couplings in enemy camps, is resigned to his gleefully perverse vengeance when they're in that world… but at least there he kisses her, looks at her. Now, he's doing none of that. She understands. She's stunned that he allowed things to become as intimate, tender and sensual as they had, here in his private sanctuary. And even though he's inside her, he's managed to put her back at arms' length, back in her place…

But she can't think about that. Her mouth is still hot from his friction, his taste is fresh on her tongue… her hands still hum with the feel of his skin, the way he melted into her touch… but no, she can't think about any of that. Not now…

He's thrusting hard and so deep she cries out, tightens her legs around his waist, buries her face in his neck, inhaling the aphrodisiac of his scent. She's losing herself in sensations, his sounds of animal pleasure… and this is fine. This is good. This is enough.

She knows him so well, knows from his breathing that he's close… and this moment is always so intensely arousing to her that she'll touch herself, bring herself to another orgasm, her shudders and cries intermingling with his… but this time she wants to be present, see if she can detect anything she's missed…

So when he gasps, goes rigid… she watches. And instead of closing his eyes and ducking his head as he usually does, he lifts his chin and locks into her eyes, his lids heavy, pupils blown and black… and he keeps them open, revealing himself, sharing with her each moment of the pleasure surging through his body… challenging her to  _see_  him…

As if she could look away… as if she weren't mesmerized, breathless, moved to tears by this intimacy, by his beauty…

But when the last of his orgasm fades, his face clouds, eyes grow cold, and close... shutting her out. He quickly withdraws from her body and drops her onto her feet, turns to rinse off...

"This never happened," he says gruffly, and escapes from the shower, leaving her to gape after him.

She's stunned, hurt… so many comments and questions rising up and choking her that she can't settle on just one… so she leans against the wall on trembling legs, watches as he towels off in the dim light and wraps himself in his thick black bathrobe. He kicks a toe at her pile of clothing on the floor, pauses, glances in her direction. She looks away, makes a project of methodically retrieving and replacing the hand shower on the wall, shutting it off… but all the while she's peripherally got her eyes on him as he picks up her clothing, shakes out each piece and drapes it over an empty towel rack. When he reaches her garter belt, he turns away… but she sees him stuff it into his pocket.

Without a word, he opens the door, strides out and closes it firmly behind him. But it re-opens a moment later...

"Get me Moo Shu Pork," he says, and shuts the door with finality.

She blinks a moment, huffs a hollow laugh. She was right — best not to assume anything about him tonight. She leans into the still hot shower spray, lifts her face, lets the water wash away unwelcome waves of sadness until only pure physical satisfaction remains.

It doesn't matter. Nothing happened here… nothing  _can_  happen here, nothing  _will_  happen here. There's no reason for tears.

**_To be continued…_ **


End file.
